The summer swing still leans
like an old man with a crooked back
certain that with a little adjustment
he could rock and soothe
a child or lover.

The fence remains in ill repair
planks pop with the dog’s jump
the snow, or windy April,
and mountains push their way
down onto the houses that necklace
these foothills and forests.

The kitchen never grows bigger
the wall remains as solid as the day
I first put flour and coffee in the pantry.
The girls still wanted to wack it down
renew the promise of more space
that their dad had bestowed upon breakfast
Cheerios and toast, oh that embrace
of a bigger dream for this house.

You could still do it they say,
from afar, to their mother who hits
the head of nails only three out of four
tries, I hammer my way
through this noisy solace.

I wonder how many times I’ll pull up
the drive or stand watching out
the window, lean over the sink
and witness the yellows of sunrise creep
up the pine slats, the oranges of early
that turn the wobbles and angles
of broken fences and furniture
into a softer blanket of ownership,
this is my life alone.

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Published by Anne Marie Mackler

Anne Marie is a poet and writer who happily resides in the Verde Valley in Arizona, where you will often find her walking Romeo, the dog, along the Verde or on desert trails. She earns her keep as a fundraiser for the non-profit organization: Sedona Public Library. Parenting and poeting go hand in hand, even if your kids are adults, which is when, for Anne Marie, it actually grew most interesting and fun.
View all posts by Anne Marie Mackler